Page 43 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)
I almost smile, but I’m too stuck on how much Ben trusts me. He’s giving me so much info about his brothers—when maybe Beckett spoke in French to keep Eliot’s sex life a secret from me.
My heart keeps swelling. I follow Ben as he brings my backpack to the pull-out. Couch cushions are already stacked near the floor-length windows. The glittering, mesmeric city-view nearly siphons oxygen from my lungs.
At nighttime, everything sparkles.
Wow.
He sets my backpack on the unfurled mattress. “My brothers know we’re not together,” he says, “and that you got booted from your apartment and just needed a place to crash.”
I nod a couple times, trying not to frown at how easily he said, “We’re not together.” Of course we’re not. It’s a fact I haven’t tried to overturn. Neither has he.
I glance around. “Has he been pelting condoms at all your friends?”
“You’re the only one I’ve ever brought to their place.” Ben reenters the kitchen, not making a big deal about me being the first, but I notice how he didn’t call this apartment his place.
This is still a temporary living situation for him. He hasn’t earned enough tips to pack up and find better housing in the area yet.
Ben spins around to tell me, “I’m sorry about downstairs.”
“It’s fine,” I assure, trailing after him while he nears the fridge. “Really, I should’ve just let you come meet me. Lesson learned. Having a Cobalt sidekick isn’t the worst thing in the world, especially if that Cobalt is you.”
His smile stretches to sexier levels. “I’d say wise choice , Fisher, but you’d be choosing the last picked Cobalt.”
“Well, you know what they say”—I lean on the sink—“saving the best for last.”
I watch his expression go gentle on me, yet our gazes crash together like we’re the turbulent sea. I chew on the corner of my lip, my pulse thumping.
He scrapes his fingers through his wavy hair, then clears arousal out of his throat. God, that might be my favorite noise on earth, which is so dumb. There are a billion other noises that should be better—like the sound of the snare and bass when I drum to “She” by Green Day.
“Security has just been tighter than usual.” Ben rests his shoulders on the fridge, not turning away from me but not bridging the distance either. “I’m not as famous as Xander or Charlie. But our parents still worry about all of us getting kidnapped and extorted for money.”
“Oh to be that famous,” Tom suddenly appears in the kitchen. Ben and I quickly tear our gazes off each other.
Tension ramps up more. I rotate to the sink, combatting the impulse to stick my flaming face beneath the faucet. It’s good Tom is here—not that Ben and I were about to do anything normal friends wouldn’t do.
Tom plops on the barstool, only wearing black drawstring pants. A tattoo of a black skull with red devil horns is inked over his heart.
Must be new-ish.
I definitely would’ve noticed that tattoo on YouTube. He’ll sometimes peel off his T-shirts during high-octane performances. I’m almost positive he has millions of views online for his arresting stage presence alone. Prickly feelings toward him aside, the dude is talented.
He has the “it” factor. Which is why I’m salty he didn’t think I was worthy enough for the drumming position. Maybe I did want Tom’s approval, okay. It would’ve been nice to be validated.
Now, if he gave it—I’d grind it into the garbage disposal.
Tom grabs a clementine out of the fruit basket. What he said, with a wishful longing, registers with me all of a sudden. “Wait, you’re not that famous?” I ask in disbelief.
I’ll never admit it out loud, but The Carraways were in my top three most listened-to bands last year. I almost uninstalled the music app on my phone when I saw it, but it’s hard to deny I love the EP they put out.
Emo punk-rock has been in my soul since I discovered Green Day, which spiraled me into Simple Plan, Panic at the Disco, My Chemical Romance, and The Carraways.
But I’ve loved The Carraways the most because they’re my generation.
And sure, it was a sucker punch in the gut when I didn’t make the band—but I didn’t stop listening to their music.
I still watch YouTube videos of their live performances just to see if they’re singing a new song at a show. Then I’ll stream it on repeat until they drop the single.
“Get Lost” is my constant go-to “fuck my life” song that I belt in my car when I’m feeling like the world is out to get me. So I’m just a little dumbfounded how Tom thinks he’s not famous. In my eyes, he’s incredibly famous.
Tom squints at me in his own confusion. “Do you think I’m famous?”
“You have three million views on your music video for Get Lost,” I tell him. “And before you say something about me watching it, remember that I was trying out for your band. I had to do my research, Thomas.”
“Obviously not well enough, Harry , because A. My name is just Tom?—”
“I know.”
“—and B. Three million views is nothing. I might be known to people who like the genre, but the random Joe down the block doesn’t know shit about The Carraways. I’m basically a nobody.”
“He wants mainstream popularity,” Ben explains as he kicks the fridge closed with his foot. He brings out two cans of Fizz Life and offers me one.
I take the soda, still baffled. “Then why don’t you play pop?”
“Because I don’t like pop music.” Tom peels the orange with his thumb. “If I have to be a trendsetter and set the trends back to emo-punk, then that’s what I’m going to do.”
I remember Ben mentioning that Tom’s ambition is high, and I’m now realizing how high. Maybe this is why he keeps losing drummers. His goals are fucking lofty.
“You could just use your ‘Cobalt’ name to get popularity.” I pop the tab to the soda, and it lets out a bubbly fizzle. It’s an honest suggestion, but I worry it comes off a little sarcastic.
“Wow, why didn’t I think of that before?” Tom tosses a slice of orange in his mouth and slides off the stool. “Don’t let her near my records, Ben Pirrip. I wouldn’t put it past Harry to practice her drumming skills on them.”
“Not even on my death bed, Tommy .” I flip him off.
He gives me a middle finger in return and leaves for his bedroom. Just when I thought we were having a civil conversation. I whirl around to Ben, who’s taking a large swig of his Fizz Life.
“Did I sound sarcastic?” I ask.
He shakes his head and sets the can on the counter. “No. He agrees with you. He’d use his last name to get popular, but it doesn’t really work like that. The people who follow our family online don’t necessarily love the kind of music he plays. His genre is niche.”
So he either has to sell out and make different music or continue playing for his loyal but small following. I’m guessing if Tom wants more popularity, it must be for something other than money. It can’t only be for fame though…right?
Who would want to be famous? Xander Hale looks like the definition of soul-crushed every time I see him in Classical Mythology. Random strangers film him, yell his name, try to seize his attention. It’s exhausting to just observe from the sidelines. I can’t even imagine being Xander.
I don’t think Tom wants that—but then what does he want?
And why do I even care? It’s Tom fucking Cobalt. My nemesis. Ben’s watching me intently, his lips lifting the more I scowl.
“Tom wants fame?” I end up asking.
“He wants people to listen to his music. A lot of people. Naturally fame would come with that, yeah.” He opens a bag of sea salt popcorn that must be vegan-friendly, then looks me over. “What do you think about being famous? Would you be okay with it?”
I’m not sure why he’s asking. It’s not like I’m in jeopardy of being some noteworthy superstar.
My life will be common. I’ll be a surgeon at a hospital in the city, hopefully New York.
The most exciting thing about me will be my friendship with him, but it’s not as if Ben Cobalt’s friends even have a drop of fame.
He has too many friends for that.
“Honestly,” I say, “I’m not a fan of fame after what I’ve seen Xander go through.”
Ben winces. “Yeah but…that’s different. Xander is different…” His voice trails off, and I know I struck a tense chord. Xander’s not a good name to toss around Ben.
It’s been a month, and the most they say is “hey” and “hi” and the occasional “what’s up” – which never has an actual verbal reply. Just a head nod.
Sometimes I feel like an invisible wall sitting between them. Only, they both can see me but can’t see each other.
I don’t want to make this night awkward before it’s begun, so I ask quickly, “Are you tired or do you want to stay up?”
His lips slowly stretch into a grin that is too attractive for words. Literally. Words fly so far out of my head the dictionary might as well be planted on the moon.
“I’m not tired at all, Fisher.” His voice is like a cool wind traveling over my skin, creating goosebumps of anticipation.
It is not a sexual suggestion, Harriet . But damn, my body wishes it were one. This dry spell is seriously messing with my head, and we still have the entire night to go.